


A Space Between Pistol and Pen

by fiftysevenacademics (rapiddescent)



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Bisexual Alexander Hamilton, Duelling, Internalized Homophobia, Love Letters, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-05
Updated: 2016-11-05
Packaged: 2018-08-29 05:28:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8477125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rapiddescent/pseuds/fiftysevenacademics
Summary: On the eve of his duel with Burr, Hamilton finally discovers how to prove his love for Laurens.





	

"That ought to just about do it," Hamilton sighed, sprinkling sand over the neatly inked lines of figures and instructions on the paper. He looked over his shoulder at the box sitting on top of his bed, again, with the same mixture of anticipation and dread he had felt all the previous times. 

"I want it to be over, and I want to win."

He took another sheet of paper, dipped his pen in the ink, and began writing.

_This letter, my very dear Eliza..._

Beyond that, words eluded him. He turned again to the box on the bed, and this time, set down his pen and walked over to it. He lifted the lid and felt his fingers slip around the grip, wood smooth and warm in his palm, as he lofted the pistol and aimed it at a pillow, which still bore the imprint of his head. 

The image of another man, long ago, in a field bordered by forest, firing his pistol at an opponent, floated before his eyes. He had been a second that time, and it took all his willpower to keep his eyes open and lungs moving as his principal leveled his weapon. The relief he felt when his man remained standing flooded him again as strongly as it had on that day.

"Why do I feel like I should beg your forgiveness?"

He checked, for the fourth time that night, to make sure he had enough powder and shot for two or three rounds, then closed the box and stared through the window at the darkened city below. 

"You _did_ the same, would do the same again in my place, and died for less. _You_ died. For _less_."

He sat next to the box and idly patted the top, searching the candlelight as if for an anchor until his eyes landed on a small trunk not far from his desk. He crossed the room and unlatched the buckle. Letters lay, bound by cords and ribbons, in neat piles. He dug until he found the one he sought, and lifted the tattered black hair ribbon to his nose.

"Even after all these years," he thought, inhaling the rose scent of Laurens' pomade. Had Laurens ever noticed he'd filched that ribbon?

He untied the strand of silk and greedily consumed page after page of Laurens' elegant script.

_"Words come not so easily to me, who feels as strongly as you yet lacks the language with which to express my sentiments."_

_"My dear boy, if words could express the depth of my feelings, I would surely commit them to paper. But I fear neither my tongue nor my pen capable of conveying my affection for you."_

_"As you know, my dear Hamilton, my heart conflicts with my conscience regarding you. My heart tells me to love you in every way, but my conscience tells me this is wrong, and I suffer terribly with this knowledge."_

Hamilton refolded the letters and stacked them next to the pistol box. He regarded them for a moment, then returned to his desk.

_My dearest John,_

_Much has happened since fate decreed our permanent separation. Have you met my son, Phillip?  You would instantly recognize him. I doubt not that you two would be drawn together in heaven, or that you would become fast friends. The only man I have ever known whose intellect, bravery, and thirst for liberty matches your own is my eldest son, who died needlessly defending my honor. I have been through enough of them to know these affairs of honor are but cogs in a machine from which we all yearn to escape, yet cannot find the key to shut down. Just as there was no glory in his death, or yours, there will be none in mine, should that be my lot._

_I long for your counsel in these final hours before my interview with Burr. When I think of my beloved Eliza and our family, I want to apologize to him. When I think of my reputation, by which instrument I hope I may still be of some use to the Republic to which you and I dedicated our lives, I am certain that I cannot. I know you would understand. If I hold my breath and close my eyes, I can almost hear you saying  "strong words, someone's gotta hold him to it". The world might judge me harshly, my dear friend, but you will continue to love me as you always have. The only compensation I can expect for leaving behind my wife and darling children is reuniting with the friend I love above all other men._

The candle sputtered down to a stub as Hamilton reread his letter, and a horrible certainty crept upon him.  

"I have made many mistakes, but I have also made our nation. Future generations will want to read my letters. The words I have written, no matter the recipient, are words I stand by. When they write the story of America, will I be a hero or a villain? A heartless pirate or a sensible man? I will leave them all my writing, public and private. I have nothing to hide, and nothing but my honor to protect. History must remember me as I am."

He fondled the black ribbon.

"But should I suborn Laurens to that cause? Somewhere, in the back of his head, he heard a voice telling him it was a sin, and what honor could his letters to me possibly bring him?"

He wrote again.

_I have walked in the shadow of our love for so long, sometimes I wonder if there was ever anything solid between me and the sun. But I know what we did. I know what was real, though time has made it appear as if through the wrong end of a telescope. I wish I could prove my love to you now as much as I wanted to back then._

In a flash, Hamilton knew how he could still prove his love. He dropped his pen and clasped the bundle of Laurens' letters. He rose and turned toward the fireplace, which had not been lit because on a July evening, he had no need for extra warmth. Hamilton carried the letters with one hand and the candle with the other, then touched the flame to one corner.

"I can't keep my own secrets, John, but I can keep yours."

As fire devoured the paper, he opened his fist, and the letters fell to the grate. The flames caressed each one, like Laurens' voice in his ear the last time they lay together: "No matter how hard it is for me to say it, never forget that I love you."

He gently lowered the letter he had just written on top of the pile, and watched it crinkle into carbon with the rest. The night had softened to the thin gray that drags the sun in its wake as Hamilton sat back down at his desk and returned to his first letter, overcome with grief.

_This letter, my very dear Eliza, will not be delivered to you, unless I shall first have terminated my earthly career; to begin, as I humbly hope from redeeming grace and divine mercy, a happy immortality._

_If it had been possible for me to have avoided the interview, my love for you and my precious children would have been alone a decisive motive....._


End file.
